


still more left to give

by Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Ten, Brothels, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode: s04e18 The End of Time (2), M/M, Minor Ninth Doctor/Jack Harkness/Rose Tyler, Minor Twelfth Doctor/Missy, Missing Scene, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Regeneration (Doctor Who), Tenth Doctor Angst, Unhealthy Relationships, alien brothels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 08:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: There were no saucy words to beckon the Doctor to enter; this wasn’t your regular, run of the mill brothel. Less than half a dozen Pleasure Gardens existed in the whole of time and space. He could feel the living breathing dark slowly gather: the kernel of his desires and his needs taking root and growing.





	still more left to give

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to grimdarkfandango for the beta! Missing scene set during the Tenth Doctor's sadness errands, post-Jack, pre-Rose (though all the guilty feels are Master related). If there are any tags or warnings I should add to this, please let me know.

There were a lot of reasons to travel to a pleasure planet. After all, there were as many ways to take pleasure in things as there were stars. But tucked away from the beaches and the promenades this modest building with its nondescript entrance served only one very basic, very simple need.

The being at the door smiled gently. “You have been here before,” it said, clasping its claws together lightly and politely inclining its head. “Madame remembers you.”

The Doctor thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and craned his neck to look back down the narrow pathway lined with vines and carvings. He could go back to the TARDIS and fly off somewhere else, anywhere else. There was still time. Some, anyway. 

“I have,” he drawled as he brought his attention back to the being. He could have spent a night with Jack. He could have ignored the ugly buzzing of fixed points and the grinding unease of all the ways they were alike and all the ways they weren’t. He could have and instead, the TARDIS had brought him here.

“It has been a while since you came by,” it said, and drew aside a beaded curtain in invitation. The strands chimed softly as the curtain parted.

“It has, hasn’t it. A very long while--,” the Doctor said, slipping past the beads into a hallway that twenty feet beyond transitioned into a wrought iron staircase spiralling upwards. He spun around, walking backwards as the being escorted him into the depths of the Pleasure Garden. He twirled a finger around at his own features. “New face. Soon to be old face.”

“All are welcome,” the being said, and politely inclined its head again.

The Doctor took the steps quickly, his hearts beating a touch faster. He could be spending the night with anyone in the vastness of the universe; one never knew what awaited them in the Garden. Last time he’d stopped in, the Garden had taken shape into that lovely one-armed Silurian he’d never traveled back for. A lingering regret at the time, but for the best. They were--like him and Jack--not quite what the other needed in the long run.

He put his hand to the panel outside the one and only door at the top of the landing. Beside him, the being nodded. “Payment accepted,” it said once the panel glowed purple. It retreated a step and bowed. “Find what you are missing in the Garden, Doctor. Find solace.”

With a soft click, the door swung inward to darkness.

The Doctor hesitated, hands braced and clinging to the doorframe. He leaned over the threshold without crossing it, like he’d done before exiting the TARDIS at each stop on this grand, farewell tour of his.

There were no saucy words to beckon him to enter; this wasn’t your regular, run of the mill brothel. Less than half a dozen Pleasure Gardens existed in the whole of time and space. He could feel the living breathing dark slowly gather: the kernel of his desires and his needs taking root and growing. 

“Say it,” the Garden said as it took form, and the darkness receded like a pool of water being drawn into a straw. Liquid shadows eeled away to reveal the shapes and angles of his TARDIS’s control room while a figure formed towards the rear.

The Doctor threw himself back into the hallway. He pressed himself to the wall beside the open door and shut his eyes tight as if that’d banish the image. “You can’t,” he said, not sure if he was trying to argue with the Garden or with himself, the deepest, ugliest wounds still stinging. Both, probably. “It’s too soon.”

“Don’t keep me waiting, Doctor.”

“How could you,” the Doctor hissed, smacking his palms against the walls encasing the Garden. He could feel it humming, unconcerned and neutral, its tiny vibrations passing into his back and echoing in his bones. This wasn’t _fair._

His breath chopped itself to pieces between the hard clench of his teeth, turned into short sips of air that stung like wasps. He should go back down that spiral staircase without a backwards look. He should walk out and say the rest of his goodbyes and be done with this life.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, trying to think his way out of this like he might any old crisis and yet he couldn’t escape the undeniable truth of the situation. The crux of the matter remained: there was no good time for this farewell. No time at all that he could go to and not enough time that remained. His hearts still thudding, the Doctor took a deep, steadying breath. The seed had been planted.

“Finally,” the Master said, when the Doctor stepped into the TARDIS. 

The Doctor flung his coat to the side and left it hanging in its usual spot. The control room didn’t feel quite right, her shape and form but not her soul, not _wrong_ so much as a very good but not-quite-good-enough imitation. The Garden wasn’t particularly skilled at inorganic shapes, let alone one so very complicated, and that little reminder of the reality of this place was a blessing. The Master though, just as that Silurian had, appeared incredibly, profoundly real.

The Master’s hair was the pale shock of his resurrected form, but he wasn’t dressed in a stinking too-large hoodie and tattered trousers. He wore a trim three-piece suit with a bright fuschia lining and a solid gold tie made of living metal that would be far too flashy for Harold Saxon.

“Picked something out of the closet for yourself,” the Doctor guessed. 

“And showered and shaved and scrubbed the floors,” the Master shot back, gesturing as he rattled off a few more ridiculous claims. “Made myself right at home. Something I didn’t get to do the last time I was here.”

The last time. When he’d stolen her. When he’d been shot dead. That death so different from the one that still crackled in the Doctor’s head like a live wire, frayed and spitting.

“Never once wore that tie. Not sure why I kept it, really. Bit pretentious,” the Doctor said. He wondered if he could simply banter with the Master for hours, trade wits and quips and live the fiction of what it would have been like to have the Master travel with him, healing and whole. It probably wouldn’t work. Not when he couldn’t pretend away the simmering darkness in his gut, the shadowy oilslick _lust_ that responded to what the Garden was offering him tonight.

“You’re just jealous I could make it work. Now are you ready, Doctor?” the Master asked, the spreading grin on his face wild and mad and utterly beautiful.

Informed consent, of course. Same as before. He could still refuse. Turn tail and run and save this goodbye for never--

“Answer me. Are you ready?”

What was another fiction, even one as ruinous as this, in the catalogue of his existence? Hands trembling, the Doctor started in on the buttons of his coat. “Absolutely,” he said, flashing a manic, mirroring grin.

“Then let us begin,” the Master crowed. He rounded the console with purpose and batted the Doctor’s hands away, fingers clawing at the buttons of his suit coat to rip them free. Once bared, he twisted his hands in the fabric beneath, thread snapping as he hauled their bodies tight together.

“Watch the shirt!”

“You never said it properly,” the Master hissed, his clenched teeth grazing against the Doctor’s cheek. “My name.”

“Hello Master,” the Doctor said, breezy and cavalier. He turned just enough to feel the stretch of the Master’s lips against the corner of his mouth. That live wire in his skull sputtered and sparked, traveled the full length of his spine and split along the nerves to skitter into each of his limbs. His hands turned tingly. They trembled.

“Not like that, Doctor.” The Master’s knuckles were hard ripples of bone against the Doctor’s ribs, his breath a warm gust. “Say it the way you know I want to _hear_ it.”

Even here, in the safety of the Garden, the Doctor struggled with himself. He explored the shape of the sound in his head, variable, _mercurial,_ shifting from the crystalline points of a high whine into the fog of a softly whispered moan. Oh, the Master would like to hear all of that, just as he’d eat up the sound of his name spoken in rage and despair and in broken, ragged weeping. But this wasn’t the real Master. This Master was borne primarily of his own psyche, imprinted with all the right mannerisms, the right cruelties, but attuned to the cruelties the Doctor himself would desire, and so when eventually the hurt of loss grew to be too much and he spit the Master’s name into the air broken by a shaking almost-sob, the Doctor found himself rewarded with a biting kiss.

“Again.”

“Master.” It fell into the air more purposefully this time, edges softened to whispers as the Doctor chased the kiss.

“Again!”

“Master….” A near whine higher in register with the line of his chest exposed now, the edge of the console digging into the backs of his legs, and the Master’s fingers clawed into his sides on skin that regenerated so quickly it had no hope of bearing bruises.

“You’re a wretched excuse for a Time Lord, you know,” the Master said, easing back to survey him.

The Doctor fought the urge to curl inwards at the naked truth of the statement. He kept his hands braced on the TARDIS for support and relished the shame that blazed into his cheeks. No one quite pricked his ego like the Master. “Pot, kettle. What a pair we make,” he shot back.

The crack of the Master’s palm at his face felt better than the kiss. The sting of it sharpened by the return of the flush, branding him with a visible confession: yes, he knew. Wretched down to his core. Mended, but poorly so. And how could he have believed he might fix another? One broken more terribly than himself?

The Doctor waited for another blow, the sort of display of pure physical dominance the Master had liked to make onboard the Valiant.

He couldn’t have anticipated the opposite. Or near opposite. The Doctor shuddered at the push of hands into his hair, an echo of sweetness never truly forgotten, and let the Master tip his head back to leave his throat exposed and vulnerable. “I’d kill to put a collar on you again,” the Master said, near vibrating at the thought. He nosed at the Doctor’s throat, open mouth dragging across taut skin, teeth scraping. “You’d hate it just as much. Maybe more.”

“Definitely more,” the Doctor said flatly. He could feel it closing around him at the suggestion alone, the phantom weight of leather settling against his collarbone, pressing snug against his adam’s apple. He swallowed and the Master’s tongue chased the bob of his throat.

The hands in the Doctor’s hair tightened to grip at the root, forcing his gaze back to meet the Master’s. “Tell me Doctor, do you know what you _crave_ and what you’d loathe even more than being my pet again? What would make the bile creep up your throat and the tears leak down your face?” The Masters voice turned sing-song. “Because I’ve figured it out.”

The Doctor twisted, a full-body reaction he couldn’t stop. His insides churned with an awful fascination. It was like trying to resist staring at an eclipse. Whatever the Garden had pulled out of his subconscious was too real and too raw, and he hated how much he wanted to know.

“I’ll give you three guesses,” the Master offered.

A parade of horrors marched through the Doctor’s head in quadruple time. “I don’t know! I--” His mind raced, frantic.

“Doesn’t matter because I lied,” the Master cried gleefully. He flipped a switch on the console to expose a telepathic circuit and grabbed the Doctor’s wrist. The Master forced his hand flat against the panel and the screen beside them fizzled into life at the same moment that the Master’s mind brushed against his own. “Look and see, Doctor.”

He didn’t want to turn his head. It didn’t matter. The Master swung the screen around so he couldn’t avoid it, gripped his chin and forced him to look, and oh, the Master was right. He loathed it. Furiously hated it down to the marrow of his bones.

“I forgive you,” said the Master on the screen, both hands clinging sweetly to the Doctor’s face in the image. It wasn’t the face the Doctor wore now, youthful and built for smiling, it was the other one. The one that was haggard and weary and merciless.

“Turn it off,” the Doctor said. He shut his eyes but the image was still there. The Garden itself was telepathic in nature and it mimicked the touch of a Time Lord’s mind far too easily, letting this awful echo of the Master lord his biggest wounds over him. The real Master hadn’t known. Hadn’t known until the very end why he’d done what he’d done.

“No,” the Master said, the syllable dragging into a near moan of ecstasy.

The Master had predicted the sharp acid sting in his throat and the wet slip of tears, and over and over again, all the Doctor could hear was the loop: “I forgive you…. I forgive you….” It was a vicious lie in four syllables. A drumbeat of his own that he ached to be true.

When finally the Master released the Doctor’s wrist, the Doctor tore his hand away from the telepathic interface panel. He held his fingers curled close to his chest like a wounded animal. He should have known better. How stupid he was to walk into this trap of his own making. Thicker than the Master going along with Rassilon’s plan and believing he could outwit him at the end.

“The thing is…. I don’t need to play at collars and cuffs when you’re already shackled. Isn’t that right, Doctor? Because I’m the closest you’ll ever get to saving yourself _or_ punishing yourself. You _yeaaaarn_ for my sanity, not out of the goodness of your hearts but out of simple selfishness,” the Master spat, and reached his arms wide as he spun on his heel in a slow circle. “If I, of all of the Time Lords can be redeemed, my dear Doctor….”

The Master left the rest of his words unspoken, but the Doctor could feel them slithering around his consciousness. “Oh, shut up,” he said snappishly, unsure whether he was pushing back against himself or the Garden or the ghost of the Master still living inside him.

“If only you could trust me, put that ego aside and allow yourself to give up control. You’re so wound up all the time like a little tin soldier.” The Master frowned and brought a hand to his forehead in a jerking, mocking salute as he hissed out the word.

As he dropped the salute, the control room began to change around them. The Garden did its best to match what it found in the Doctor’s mind, but it couldn’t reconfigure the way the TARDIS herself would. The struts and walls withered away before regrowing into the shape of his third-favorite sleeping quarters. The hard edge of the console became the carved wood of the sleigh bed he’d picked up a few hundred years ago; the one that could--and occasionally had--comfortably slept three.

It was a gentle reminder, he supposed, of what he might have found here on another night and that all of this was a fantasy of his own making. _“Enjoy yourself, Doctor,”_ he could hear an echo of Rose saying, the weight of her palms holding his shoulders down as he turned his gaze to Jack, in that time before things went sideways. Could feel the glowing warmth of Jack’s smile and jaunty: _“You heard the lady. Live a little.”_

The Doctor smiled despite himself at the memory of how his laugh had felt, bubbling up all sparkling and light. The memory centered him again, steadied the flutter of his pulse and made the shape of the Master’s smile a touch less vicious. 

“I suppose I am a little wound up,” the Doctor said, letting the word end on a pop of air. He tipped his head slightly, his mouth slanting at the same time, just enough to pull the Master’s gaze there laser focused. The Doctor’s stomach tightened with the same sort of thrill he got exploring the unfamiliar corners of a new planet-- Oh, this wasn’t giving up control at all, he knew, but it was as close as he’d ever get. At least with this face.

Maybe it’d be different for his next regeneration, the ripple of change marching steadily closer. The Doctor scowled inwardly at such a military term invading his consciousness, and again: _Marching, invasion,_ those were words that weren’t meant to live in him any longer. He was freshly hauled out of the spiral drain of his regrets by the Master’s hand taking hold of his tie and wrapping it in his fist like a leash.

“For fuck’s sake stop thinking about whatever it is you’re thinking about. My dick isn’t going to suck itself,” the Master said, eyes rolling dramatically. He gave the tie a firm pull and his gaze caught the Doctor’s again. He held the tie taut as the Doctor’s eyes darted to the chambered ceiling, to the books on the shelf, to the cylindrical lamp with its groovy glow, and then back again, drawn to the Master’s intense stare like gravity.

Calmness overtook the Doctor, not softly like a breeze, but in fits and starts like rusty tumblers in a lock remembering how to turn for a key. They’d done this dance before, after all. Even before the Master had chosen his name.

Satisfied, the Master shook his hand free and gave the Doctor a firm slap on the cheek. He fell back onto the bed and made himself comfortable against the pillows. He folded his arms behind his head and the leaves of his coat peeled back, fuschia lining blazing brightly along the lean lines of his body. “Will you ever get sick of taking the long way around? No, don’t answer, just take your clothes off. Leave the tie.”

The Doctor hadn’t been particularly good at holding his tongue in this regeneration, and he fought the urge to fire off a retort. He snapped his mouth shut stubbornly and shed his coat and his shirt, more than one loose button clattering as it rolled away.

“Had you in that cage for a year and I didn’t use that pretty mouth once,” the Master said, idly reaching out to flick his index finger along the slant of the Doctor’s cheek. “Course, you were a little old and creaky at the time, weren’t you. Probably would’ve killed you, but what a way to go.”

The Doctor didn’t particularly want to think about that year, or how often in the time that followed that he’d thought about what if the Master had followed through on his blustering threats. What if he’d reversed the process and _used_ him.... “And you were mad,” the Doctor said. “Worse than you’ve ever been.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” The Master’s sly look darkened and he hooked his finger into the knot of the Doctor’s tie to pull him closer, tell him without words that he wanted the Doctor to crawl up over him and open his mouth for a kiss.

He wasn’t to kiss back, not yet. The Master wanted to use his mouth and that’s how the game always went: a kiss taken first, then fingers pushed onto his tongue, and then--

_”Can you fit it all in your mouth? Just try….”_

It was near impossible to remain pliant and unresisting as the Master explored his mouth, tongue licking against his own, against the row of his teeth, across his parted lips. He hadn’t been good at staying still for some time now, maybe not ever, not really. The sigh the Master breathed into his mouth was sweeter than it should be.

The Doctor slowly sucked the taste of the Master off his lips as he opened his eyes again. The Master’s stare had grown just the slightest bit unfocused, and turned startled but not disapproving when the Doctor didn’t wait passively for the push of fingers past his lips but grabbed the Master’s wrist to bring them to his mouth.

“I haven’t done what comes next with this body,” he admitted before his lips closed around the Master’s fingers. He watched the Master’s eyes widen in surprise before narrowing again.

“So you haven’t sucked a single cock in how many years then? Shame. Little thin in the lips, this one, but oh-- Oh, I see,” the Master’s lashes fluttered at the softly darting licks against the ripple of skin at his knuckles. “Different sort of oral fixation.”

“Among other things,” the Doctor admitted. He ached for it already. Always did whenever he became intimate with another being. Surely, the Garden knew it. Surely, the Master would’ve figured it out if he’d lived.

“You little tart, you want to be railed.”

The Doctor’s hearts leapt and his stomach swooped. Limbs left tingling all over again, he didn’t even bother to stop the moan or the eager swallow at the thought of having the Master fuck into him, brutal and hungry. He sucked the Master fingers as deep as he could, holding his weight on one wrist to shove his trousers down with the other. He kicked off the clothes still clinging to him and the Master pulled his fingers free to leave him open-mouthed and panting.

“Me first,” the Master said, wiping spit on the Doctor’s forehead and down the bridge of his nose. His gaze scraped down the length of the Doctor’s body poised over him, and he grinned as he opened his trousers to free his cock.

Not as well-endowed as he’d been a few regenerations ago, but not bad. Just the right heft to his cock to have made the Doctor salivate the last time around with the promise to fill his mouth. He wet his lips and started with what this regeneration was good at: licking his way up to the tip with enthusiasm. His tongue curled and lapped at every inch, taste of musky sweat spreading into his throat as he swallowed down the flood of saliva that filled his mouth. He bathed the whole of the Master’s cock lovingly with his tongue as the Master kept a hand at the base, held it poised like an offering. A promise.

The Doctor closed his eyes when he finally wrapped his lips around the head, learned the shape of it anew with the flat of his tongue and the hollow of his cheeks. He found he did still enjoy sucking cock, if not as much as he had when he’d sported ears meant to hold on to, and a small part of him wondered if he’d always enjoy it. Maybe this was something hard-baked into him, the lust waxing and waning, but enjoying his mouth near full to bursting a constant.

Maybe. Just as other things about the Master remained the same: his growing impatience no matter that he was getting his way, too eager to take more above all else. His grip found the Doctor’s hair, wrenched his head up and off, and the Doctor shuddered at the dark thrill of almost hurt that came from the pull at his scalp. He could feel his breath pushed back at him from where the Master’s cock was still waiting, poised near his slack mouth.

He swallowed slowly and worried the corner of his mouth with the point of his tongue. Maybe the Master would want more than just his dick sucked. Maybe he’d want to be eaten out.

“I can feel you thinking,” the Master said accusingly. He smacked his cock against the Doctor’s chin and the Doctor could sense both his smug refusal and the pleasure he took in being contrary. “Nice try, but this body hates the idea about as much as you love it. Guess you’ll just have to wait until the _next_ time we’re together.”

On the heels of the lilting taunt, the Master’s smug, sly smile slipped towards coquettish. His lashes lowered, flickered dark as coal for a moment as the Doctor recoiled. The illusion nearly broke, straining like a thread pulled to its limit, ready to scatter to the floor like all those buttons. With effort the Doctor shoved the awful truth away, buried it like so many other things.

It seemed for a moment as if the Garden pushed back, insisted that it had not misspoken. That there was no mistake or miscalculation.

The Doctor hadn’t come here for that kind of lie. He shook away the faint telepathic query extending like tendrils. Better to simmer in the regrets of his pasts than invent new regrets for a life he hasn’t lived yet. Dismissed, the presence of the Garden faded into the background again, and as if making up for the error, the Master’s cock smacked hot against his cheek again.

The Master held him firmly in place, fucked up into his mouth like he was just a thing to be used. Like the Doctor had craved vicariously, viciously, in the dark silent hours when the TARDIS was too empty to bear.

“You’re going to take it like this first before I give it to you how you want it, Doctor.”

The Doctor could only make a simple noise in response, a crude sound, raggedy and needy. It was always around here, held fast in the face of the Master’s desire where he usually gave in and let himself go, shoulders losing their near invisible tension. Relieved to submit beneath the relentless force of the Master’s will and freeing himself to be unashamed at the hard throb of his own cock and the hot sizzle of wanting that wound itself along the notches of his spine.

His lips numbed as the Master fucked his face and he couldn’t swallow properly. Spit had begun to drip down his chin. Disgusting, but the Master always did leave things messy in his wake. It was a bit foul and also comfortingly familiar, and he found himself clinging to a fistful of bedsheets, the twist of fabric taut over his knuckles. His skin felt stretched just as tightly, too much energy beneath, all that regeneration power waiting to surge forth and burn him into something new. It was but an ember beneath the heat of the Master’s gaze where the void of his pupils widened, endless and greedy.

“You nasty little slut,” the Master purred. “You’ve still got it.” He wrenched the Doctor’s head back and to the side, pressed his cock against the Doctor’s cheek and let it ride there, slick and filthy, hips lifting in brief little thrusts.

He came with an explosive sigh, spilling all over the Doctor’s face, letting the heat of it slip down to mix with the wet mess of spit cooling on the Doctor’s chin.

The Master laughed when the Doctor slumped onto the bed beside him and hurriedly wiped his face clean with his discarded shirt. “So quick to be rid of me?” he said, lips turning towards an unconvincing pout. “Maybe you _should_ be punished.”

“And how would you punish me, Master?” the Doctor asked, because this, too, was just part of the game.

“I already told you: By giving you your forgiveness,” the Master said, with an awful tenderness, and a horrifying measure of truthfulness in his tone. He turned towards the Doctor, laying beside him as if they were mere boys in a field of waist-high grass. As if time meant nothing. His palm curled warm against the spot where he’d just made a ruin of the Doctor’s face, and then between blinks that cruel glimmer of sweetness was gone.

Because of course there were things the Master would never admit to, same as him, and one of them was that he needed this wretched game of theirs just as much. “Someday, anyway,” the Master added, eyes narrowing. “Now you best get on your hands and knees if you want to get fucked, you randy bitch.”

The Doctor could hardly move fast enough, tripping over his own limbs as he scrambled to move his weight to his elbows. The Master laughed and stripped to the waist as he settled behind him and gave him a smack, loud and stinging.

Something coldly slick hit the Doctor’s skin before the Master’s thumbs hooked straight into him and spread him wide. He didn’t have a chance to catch his breath before the grudging stretch pulled a moan straight out of him. Sound didn’t stop pouring out of him, turned instead into a high whine. A keening feedback loop that stuttered only when a slippery hand slid up his back to press at the nape of his neck and hold him in place as the Master crudely worked him open with the other.

It was a span of short seconds before the Master was hard again, ready and eager, his cock wedging in demandingly. The hand at the Doctor’s nape kept him pinned, an endpoint for a fiery current of gritty pleasure that jolted through him from where he was being split apart. The Master’s fingers tightened possessively as he seated himself fully in the Doctor, and the curve of his thumb fit snugly at the notch of the Doctor’s vertebrae as his fingers claimed the slope of his shoulder.

Held anchored by the hand at his neck and the hand clawed at the wing of his hip, the Doctor twisted between those two endpoints as the plunge of the Master’s cock filled him full. Fleetingly he was reminded that there’d be no bruises to rise, nothing at all to mark this moment besides his own memory. He should’ve been used to that by now, he thought, and ultimately a tiny, awful voice reminded him that it wasn’t even the real Master who was using his body with the same gleeful lust as lifetimes ago.

It was so fucking good though did it matter? The Doctor shuddered under the hard slap of the Master’s body against his, keened at the dig of fingers as the Master sought leverage to fuck into him with more and more force. To pound into him with a steady, endless rhythm that between each slamming thrust meant he could feel the drum of his heart. That same beat that had driven the Master mad. That had brought him ultimately here by the light tapping of fingers on glass. Four hollow beats that amplified as he anticipated the pull back and the force that seated the Master’s cock to the root in him again and again.

“I’d crawl inside you if I could,” the Master hissed, and there was the sound of his knees striving for purchase on the sheets. He pushed his hips flush against the Doctor, forced him to exert equal force back or be smothered into the bed.

With a laugh the Master fell forward against him, freeing the hold on the Doctor’s neck to slide an arm under him and take his cock in a rough backhanded grip. The harsh pounding turned to a slow and steady grind, smearing their bodies together as the fingers tight on his cock stripped it mercilessly. The Master brought him crudely to coming and didn’t stop. Raw nerves screamed with pleasure as the skittering energy of regeneration kept him on edge and held him there, shuddering and overwhelmed and still more left to give.

He came a dozen times. Or nearly.

“Eleven isn’t good enough for me,” the Master hissed, when the Doctor begged him to finish.

The Master dragged a sloppy, biting kiss across his shoulder and finally, _finally_ filled him full of come when he’d been pushed eventually to twelve and left gasping. Filthy and shivering and mumbling the Master’s name in the wet spreading pool of his own come.

It felt like it took forever to draw away from the edge of overloaded nerves. For the Master to pull free and let him tip to his side weak limbed and flush with endorphins.

“Sleep my dear Doctor,” the Master said, and lay down behind him.

The smell of warm grass rose up to rid him of all the other scents, and eventually he did sleep, deep and dreamless.

He woke tired and grimy and alone but without the particular gnawing ache that had lived behind his breastbone for days. The Garden formed a bath for him, let him soak for long hours as he readied himself to leave. He had one last farewell to make. A quick trip to close a door on that part of him that he had considered tearing down time for.

When he exited dressed in newly mended clothes, the being that saw him out nodded. If it knew, it smiled gently without judgment. “Please come again,” it said.

“Ohhhh, I might. You never know,” the Doctor said. He slid a hand over the wall and felt its answering hum. “You might not recognize me if I do.”

“I can assure you that you will be welcome at any time and in any form Doctor. My mistress, keeper of the Garden, would have it no other way.”

“Good to know,” he said, and stepped out without looking back.


End file.
